


To Turn His Back Upon The Fire

by thequeergiraffe



Series: A Song of the Younger World [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sterek, F/M, M/M, Multi, Spoilers, alternating pov, heads up: a different author will be writing the second part of this series, set directly after season two so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek follows through on a convoluted plot to get Scott to join his pack. Unfortunately for him, that plot involves befriending a very confused and extraordinarily chatty Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First go at Teen Wolf. If something isn't canon-compliant, please do let me know.

_“Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.”_  
 _-Jack London, The Call of the Wild[  
](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3252320)_

_\---_

Early spring. The night air was cool and damp and smelled of earth, of rotting leaves and pine and, beneath all that, the promise of new life that always accompanied this time of year. Derek's eyes were closed, his legs folded beneath him and his back pressed against the scratchy trunk of a vast old oak. He was listening to the night, to the echoing wood that surrounded the place he used to call home. How did ordinary humans deal with their limited capabilities? He genuinely couldn't understand it. What would it be like, he wondered, not to hear that spotted owl hooting nearly two miles away, or the soft crunch of wet leaves beneath a deer's hooves several hundred yards off, or- ah. Or the pair of teenage boys noisily crashing through the darkened woods towards Derek's house.

It was an effort not to roll his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, he let his nose confirm what his ears had picked up. The first boy smelled like Old Spice and sex and sweat and sun-warm skin and the smallest hint of flowery perfume and lingering female pheromones. Scott, then. He didn't really need to catch the scent of Ivory soap and nerves and Tide laundry detergent to know that Stiles was trailing along at Scott's side. Hints of conversation were drifting Derek's way now, mostly tumbling from Stiles' ever-moving mouth at the speed of light. At that observation, Derek  _did_ roll his eyes. It was time to teach those kids a lesson.

\---

"One day," Derek said, stepping out from behind a tree-trunk and trying very hard not to smile at the ridiculous noise that Stiles made or the tiny inhale Scott allowed, "I'm going to have to teach you how to travel without drawing the attention of every animal within a five-mile radius."

Stiles, for his part, gulped, but Scott pulled a face and folded his arms. "We weren't that loud," he said, despite the fact that he should've known better. "And besides, I've told you: you're not my Alpha."

 _Words,_  Derek thought dismissively. Scott would grow into his role as a Beta eventually, especially once Derek had completely absorbed his pack. He let his eyes flicker to Stiles- that would be the real challenge, after all, but Peter insisted it would be worthwhile- before returning his gaze to Scott and tipping his head. "You reek," he said, drawing a confused look from both of them. "I could smell your whole day on you if I wanted. What do I smell like?"

At first he thought Scott would argue...but then the young wolf closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I dunno," he said after a moment, his eyes still closed and his face screwed up with concentration. "Like...the woods, I guess. You smell like...dirt. Leaves. And...and  _predator_ ," he said at last, opening his eyes and looking at Derek with surprise. It looked as though a shiver had wended its way down Scott's spine.

Derek didn't smile, but he wasn't scowling either. "Good. But you had to really pay attention to find that last part, didn't you? If you'd just been scanning the area-"

"I wouldn't have smelled you at all," Scott said, his eyebrows pulled together. "How-"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out on your own," Derek interrupted, pleased with the way Scott's shoulders slumped. "I'm teaching it to Isaac and Jackson, of course...but that's not what you're here for, right?"

Stiles whistled, breaking the longest silence Derek had ever known him to hold. "That's good," he said, wagging his finger at Derek. "No, really. Too good for you to come up with on your own; no offense, but you tend to go for brawn over brains. So who put you up to it? Peter? Had to be Peter."

Derek could feel his nostrils flaring as he crossed his arms and shifted his stance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? So that whole 'hey, Scott, just so you know we're having lots of fun without you and learning all sorts of new tricks and the only reason you're missing out is because you're not in my pack' thing was totally unintentional?" Stiles grinned lopsidedly; Scott only looked affronted. "Listen, it's cool that you're Mr. Big and Bad, living in the woods and playing Jedi Master with a bunch of high school kids, but we're not impressed. Okay? You've got your secret werewolf knowledge and you think that makes you cool? Dude." Stiles leaned in. "I've got Google."

Something about Stiles Stilinski had always pressed a nerve Derek had never known he had. He wasn't annoying enough to draw Derek's wolf out- not usually, anyway- but God, did he manage to push Derek's buttons. "Why did you come here?" he asked, once he was able to loosen his jaw enough to speak. The smug smile on Stiles' face really wasn't helping the situation.

"To ask about Erica and Boyd," Scott said, ramping the tension even higher. "They haven't been at school and..." He shrugged. "They said they were leaving. I just wondered if you'd..."

"Heard anything?" Derek swallowed back all the vitriol that thinking of Erica and Boyd had dragged up-  _they had been his responsibility, his packmates, his pupils, and now they were gone and he didn't even know where_ \- and slid his hands into his pockets. "I haven't."

Stiles slapped his palms against his thighs and made a tisking sound. "That settles that. We'll be going now." He elbowed Scott in the ribs and looked at him meaningfully. "Now, Scott? Before the psycho zombie werewolf watching us from the window decides to come out for a snack?"

Derek turned towards the house, where Peter was sitting in the upstairs window seat (in the old nursery, that hollowed-out wreck) and wiggling his fingers at them. It was all he could do to contain a groan. "I know how you feel about Peter," he began, turning back around...but there was no one in front of him, just the sound of two boys running through the trees as fast as their feet could carry them. 


	2. Chapter 2

All right, so maybe Stiles was spending his Friday night paging between tabs on his computer, flicking from a very long- and, thus far, entirely unhelpful- article about wolves and scenting, to Facebook (where he was very casually stalking Lydia's page, looking at her relationship status-  _In a Relationship and It's Complicated_ \- and frowning), to what he was supposed to be doing (namely, chemistry), and back to the werewolf stuff. Thank God for Adderall. If Scott had started wolfing out during middle school (also known as the pre-diagnosis 'your son has behavioral issues' perpetually-stressed-parents era) they'd have all been completely, royally screwed.

Speaking of screwed...Stiles sighed and clicked back to Lydia's Facebook page. She changed her profile picture pretty much weekly, and he liked this week's choice. She looked good, considering she'd spent most of the school year essentially batshit insane and harboring a dead guy's consciousness in her head. Maybe her eyes had a little more of the crazy in 'em, but that body hadn't suffered a bit.

Pathetic. Stiles ran his hand down his face and closed out of the tab entirely. Why was he still sitting around pining after the girl he could never, ever have? And that much had become abundantly clear during the whole kamina fiasco. It was all good and well to be persistent, but even the most fervent armies packed up and went home once the war was lost.

His phone trilled- which was good, because really, the last thing he needed was time to get all angsty over Lydia- and he scooped it out of his pocket.

A text, from Scott. It said:  _have u figured out what derek was talking about yet?_

Stiles rolled his eyes and tapped out a response.  _Masking your natural scent, obviously. It's more the HOW that's bothering me. I can't tell if he just rolled around in some dirt or if it took actual work._ He poked his tongue in his cheek and added:  _Maybe you should try rolling in dirt. Might work. Who knows?_

 _thanks but no thanks_ , Scott replied moments later.  _just let me kno if u find something._

\---

Two energy drinks later, Stiles was finished with his chemistry homework and no closer whatsoever to figuring out how Derek disguised his scent so well, despite having read through entire archives of werewolf information. He was just beginning to drift into open-eyed slumber when his phone went off again.

 _u might wanna come over here_ , sent Scott.

That didn't sound good. Stiles typed out a quick response.  _On my way. But just so I know: is shit hitting the fan? Should I be bringing help? Or chains?_

Scott's reply was swift.  _fighting w allison. full moon in 3 days. worried about wolf._

Oh, boy. Chains, then. Scott and Allison still weren't seeing each other...but they weren't seeing anybody else, either, and they spent almost every evening either making out or fighting about making out.  _All right, big guy,_ he typed,  _you just stay in your room and take some deep breaths. I'm on my way._ He stuffed his phone in his pocket, dumped his bookbag out on his bed, packed the heavy-duty chains and extremely durable lock he kept in the back of his closet, and thumped down the stairs. He was all set to head out the door when a voice called from the living room: "Bup-bup-bup-bup, where do you think you're going?"

Stiles groaned. "Scott's. And I'm kind of in a hurry, so-"

"A half hour from curfew?" Stiles' dad called. Then: "Come in here, I hate yelling across the house."

Dragging his feet, Stiles wandered into the living room and shifted his ridiculously heavy bookbag. "I have half an hour. That's enough time to run over to Scott's and come right back." Not that Stiles actually intended to come right back, but if that's what he needed to say in order to leave, and quickly...

Stiles' dad gave him 'the dad look'. "Right," he said, rivaling Stiles himself for most sarcastic pronouncement, "and at about what time do you think I'll be getting the call telling me my son's found his way onto another crime scene?"

"Dad-"

"No, Stiles, I'm being serious." He heaved himself up from the couch, making a face as the bones in his back cracked loudly. "I'm tired. I've had a long day. And you've managed to make an appearance at every major crime scene this town has seen since...damn near the beginning of the school year," his dad said, sounding frustrated. "Which I still don't understand. Whenever you'd like to give me an explanation, I'd sure love to hear it."

"I really don't have time for this," Stiles whined. "Seriously, Dad, I've been expecting this conversation and I'm so fully prepared to have it with you-" which was true, even if Stiles was planning to leave out the more supernatural aspects and maybe bend the facts here and there- "-but I really, really can't do this tonight. All right? I have to go."

"Is it drugs?" Oh God, not that line of reasoning. Stiles' dad looked pained. "Is it...I don't know, that Hale kid? I know you've been hanging around with him lately. Can't say I approve."

"No, Dad, seriously-"

"Are you trying to fit in at school? If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times: high school popularity is not the end-all, be-all. I know it feels like it, but-"

"Dad," Stiles moaned, dragging the word out into several syllables.

"-if you're trying to show off, maybe impress that girl, Lydia-"

"That is so not what's going on," Stiles said, causing his dad's mouth to snap shut and his brow to furrow. "I'm not...it's not like that anymore."

"Since when? Yesterday?" His dad shook his head. "Stiles, you've been after that girl since, what, the third grade? It's not like you to give up."

"I'm not giving up, I'm letting go. There's a difference." Something about that announcement made Stiles' throat feel dry and thick, and he brushed at his stupidly burning eyes. "I'm not...I'm not that person for her. And that's fine. We're friends now, or kind of, anyway. That's good enough." He wasn't sure that was entirely true, but he hoped if he said it and thought it often enough then it just miraculously would be.

Stiles' dad had the good grace to look ashamed of himself for prying. "All right," he relented after a moment. "Go to Scott's. Go on, before I change my mind. And I'll tack fifteen minutes on to your curfew. Fair's fair."

That was all Stiles needed to hear. "Thanks!" he yelled, already pealing out the door and fumbling with his keys. He thought he heard his dad muttering "I'm going to regret this, I can see it already," before the door slammed closed behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

"You haven't got a single cunning bone in your entire body," Peter droned, still staring out of the old nursery window as he flexed his fingers again and again. A light rain had begun to fall, blurring the world outside the window and lending a chill to the air. "You're supposed to be befriending those boys, bringing them into your pack. Not glaring at them and frightening them off."

"Actually," Derek said, carefully not snarling, "you scared them off. And this plan of yours..." He shook his head, rolled his shoulders. "I hate it. I'm not..."

"Friendly?" Peter looked up at Derek, his eyes piercing in the dim attic room. "You must be. There simply is no other way. The Alphas are coming-"

"And when they do, my authority and territory will be in jeopardy," Derek sighed, rolling his eyes. "I just don't understand why I can't just make more werewolves. Bolster up my numbers."

"Because that worked so well the last time." Standing, Peter folded his arms behind his back, his gaze returning to the window. "Making new wolves is tedious. They're puppies, the adorable scamps, and puppies need training. Training takes time. Time, unfortunately, is something we're almost undoubtedly short on. Erica and Boyd are missing in more ways than one. Can't you feel it, Derek?"

Of course he could. There was no need to affirm such a thing out loud; instead, Derek merely crossed his arms and frowned. "So you think the Alphas have them."

"Yes." Peter licked his lips. "And if that's the case, then the Alphas must be near. They could decide to drop in at any time. Which is why it's of the utmost importance that you bring Scott into our pack. Isaac's a good wolf, especially for one so young. And you and I aren't so shabby ourselves," he added, tossing a wink at Derek through his reflection in the windowpane, "but Scott is strong. He's been trained, to some extent. He has  _powerful_  friends."

"The Argents."

"Them, and that mild-mannered veterinarian, Dr. Deaton. We shouldn't underestimate the power of expertise. And no one knows our kind better than the good doctor." Peter let out a breath and turned to face Derek. "But the most important thing is simply this: Scott  _should_ be yours. I made him. You are my Alpha. Call me a traditionalist, but it seems clear to me with whom his allegiance should be lying. The boy simply needs to be persuaded."

Derek sighed and walked over to the window seat, falling into it carelessly. They'd had this conversation a thousand times, and he never liked it any better. Even with all the logic laid out neatly and presented with a smile, Derek still didn't like the idea of conniving a couple of teenage boys into being his "friend". It felt like a waste of time and effort, and it didn't suit him. But...well, it wasn't like Peter could do it, could he? No amount of cunning was going to make Scott and Stiles like Peter. Begrudgingly accept? Maybe, eventually. But like?

Groaning, Derek ran his hands down his cheeks, letting the stubble scratch at his palms, before pressing his hands together beneath his chin. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, not quite looking at Peter.

The elder wolf grinned. "That, my dear nephew, is why you have me."

 


	4. Chapter 4

It seemed like everyone Stiles knew had some humungous, looming, life-threatening secret that threatened to shake the very core of humanity- or, at least, Beacon Hills. Well, unbeknownst to everyone around him, Stiles had one, too.

He sometimes rocked the fuck out to Lady Gaga.

This was one of those times. Stiles was vacuuming the living room, the cord in his hand and his iPod in his pocket. He wiggled his ass a little as he moved around the room, singing along with Gaga: "Look at him, look at me, that boy is bad and  _honestly_ , he's a wolf in disguise, but I can't stop staring in those evil- AHH!"

Derek was sitting on the couch, his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

"Oh my God," Stiles breathed, aware of how red his face must have been. He yanked his earbuds out and stammered, "What- why- how..." He took a breath and settled on the most pertinent question. "How did you get in here?"

With a look very much like a smirk, Derek thumbed at the open window. Which was suddenly missing its screen. Huh.

Scrubbing his hand down his face, Stiles groaned, "What is with you and breaking and entering? Is it a werewolf thing or did you just get a taste for it as a juvenile delinquent?"

Derek's eyes narrowed. "You've seen my criminal history?"

"No," Stiles lied quickly, swallowing guiltily.

Clearly not believing him, Derek shifted his jaw and let out an irritated huff. "Unbelievable. Do you know how wrong-"

"This coming from the guy who literally just climbed through my window uninvited not five minutes ago," Stiles interrupted. He pointed to himself, "Pot," to Derek, "kettle," and then made a general swooping motion, "black. What are you even doing here, anyway?"

Derek managed to look even more constipated and uptight than usual. "I'm here on a social visit," he gritted out, the words spoken so roughly you'd have thought he swallowed glass before he spoke.

"A social visit." Stiles' eyes were wide. Derek nodded, and Stiles licked his lips. "A social visit?"

"Yes," Derek hissed, his jaw doing that pulsing thing that meant Stiles was probably going to be shoved up against a wall shortly. "A social visit. Isn't that what people do?"

Stiles shook his head. "You're not people," he blurted, and then (before Derek had time to get offended), "Besides, generally when someone comes to visit they don't  _climb through the freakin' window_." Stiles supposed it was a slightly unfair thing to keep bringing up, considering how often he himself climbed through other people's windows, but A) Derek didn't know that and B) Stiles wasn't really 'people', either.

Jaw still tightly clenched, Derek muttered, "What would you like me to do? Go back outside and knock on the door?"

Stiles considered that for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, actually. Yeah. That would be great."

Derek shot him a dark look, but to Stiles' general amazement he did in fact then leap out the window and stalk to the front door, muttering angrily beneath his breath all the way. He pounded on the door and Stiles opened it with a look of pure astonishment on his face. "Hello," he said, his voice shaking a little with held-back laughter. "How are you, Derek? Do please come in."

True, there was a little bit of elbowing and stomping as Derek passed, but all in all the guy was being strangely polite considering how incredibly pissed off he looked. He stood in the hallway fuming, his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, but he wasn't kicking Stiles' ass or anything, so...

"So," Stiles said, leaning back on his heels.

Derek's glare deepened.

"It's Saturday." Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Saturday is cleaning day. I should probably...get back to that."

"You  _were_ cleaning, weren't you?" Derek looked around as though he were bewildered. "What are you, fifteen? Sixteen? Shouldn't you be out with your friends or something?"

"Scott usually works Saturdays, so I get the cleaning and laundry done, and then I fix dinner, and after that I finish my homework and play Mytheon for awhile-" Oh God. Did he really just say all that out loud? Flushing pink, he rushed, "I'mreallybusysomaybeyoushouldgo."

Instead of doing the normal thing and apologetically leaving, Derek wandered off towards the kitchen. Groaning, Stiles followed him. Derek paused in front of the counter, sniffing at a tin-foil wrapped package lying on a cutting board. "Deer?"

"Stiles Stilinski's Super Special Secret Spaghetti," Stiles announced proudly. "The deer is the secret. My dad thinks it's ground beef and special seasoning, but what he doesn't know won't kill him. The deer meat is healthier. Cheaper, too."

Derek sniffed at it again and nodded. "I'll stay for dinner," he said nonchalantly. He dropped down into a chair at the kitchen table, looking up at Stiles- who was spluttering incoherently- and giving him a big, phony smile.

"You're staying for dinner," Stiles said aloud, just to get a feel for the idea. He said it again with a different intonation: "You're staying for dinner. Right. In that case..." Rummaging, he scrounged up a spare cutting board, a decently sharp knife, and a few tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots. "You can help with the salad," he said sweetly, slamming the stuff down on the table and echoing Derek's dopey smile.

\---

"I'm shiny and I know it, don't know why you wanna blow it," Stiles sang, stirring his spaghetti sauce and leaning away from the steam, "Need a man who likes it rough, likes it rough, likes it rough." He spun around to get the pepper from the table only to find Derek staring at him with something very close to amusement lining his face. Plucking his earbuds out once again, Stiles put his hands on his hips. "What? You already know my deepest, darkest secret. I don't see any point in hiding it now."

"Your darkest secret involves singing shitty pop music in your kitchen?" Derek asked, his eyes still twinkling and one eyebrow raised.

"Hey!" Stiles cried indignantly. "Lady Gaga is not..." He trailed off. The look on Derek's face had changed in an instant, darkening and closing off. He thought he knew that look: it was deeper than guilt, sharper than grief. "Guessing your darkest secret is a little darker than mine," he said quietly.

Derek looked as though he were going to respond...but then his head jerked up and his eyes went to the front door, which swung open only seconds later. "Stiles?" His dad's boots sounded in the hall. "I'm home. Is that Super Special Secret Spaghetti that I'm smelling?"

Stiles' dad meandered into the kitchen and stopped, taking in the sight of his son dripping spaghetti sauce from a wooden spoon on to the freshly mopped tiles and Derek Hale sitting at his kitchen table, chopping carrots like it was the most natural thing on Earth. His eyebrows came together and he looked at Stiles with a question in his eyes.

"Derek is here for dinner," Stiles said, although it felt like the most lacking explanation he could've come up with. But what was he supposed to say? He didn't really know why Derek was there, either.

"Uh huh," Stiles' dad said, looking over at Derek with clear disbelief. "You're friends with my son now?"

"Dad," Stiles half-warned, half-pleaded. Things had been going unusually well; the last thing he needed was Overprotective Supercop making things weird.

Stiles' dad raised his hands placatingly. "All right," he said, despite the twist of a frown he was wearing. "Derek's staying for dinner."


	5. Chapter 5

Dinner was an awkward, mostly silent affair punctuated only by the scraping of forks against plates, a noise that always made Derek want to wince. He could hear their heart-beats, both slightly elevated as though they expected Derek to flip the table over and tear their throats out at any second. It was excruciating.

Sheriff Stilinksi took a long swig from his glass of non-fat milk (what was the point of non-fat milk? Why not just drink water?) and poked his fork in Derek's direction. "So," he said, setting the fork down and dabbing at his mouth with a paper towel. "Have you and my son been friends long?"

"Dad," Stiles said warningly, his heart rate picking up fractionally.

Derek glanced at him curiously before returning his attention to the sheriff. "We met right around the time my sister Laura was..." Torn apart by Derek's own uncle, who then turned Stiles' best friend into a werewolf and thus necessitated their occasional cooperation. Maybe a bit much for dinner conversation. "...found dead. Stiles took a special interest in the case."

Sheriff Stilinski gave Stiles a look. "I recall that pretty clearly," he said slowly, spinning noodles around his fork.

"Over the next few months it became clear that Stiles, Scott, and I had similar...interests. We all believe very strongly in, um, wildlife conservation." Derek raised his eyebrow at Stiles, who had pulled in his lips to keep from laughing. "So that's something we've been working on together."

"Wildlife conservation." The sheriff looked incredibly unconvinced, considering what a good back-story that was. Had Derek's delivery been lacking? "Look, let's get one thing clear, right up front." He picked up his fork again and jabbed it into the air with every word. "My son is sixteen years old, and I'm a police officer. If you've come over here in the hopes of, I don't know, getting my blessing or something-"

"Oh my God, Dad," Stiles moaned, burying his face in his hands.

"-then I'm just gonna tell you, you're sadly mistaken. How old are you now, Derek? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?" He shook his head and stabbed at his spaghetti. "It's just not gonna happen. I won't allow it."

It took Derek entirely too long to get hold of the conversation...and when he finally did, his jaw dropped and his fork clattered noisily to his plate. "I- did you- I'm not-" Never in his life had Derek felt this flustered and ridiculous. Stiles' dad thought they were...? Oh, good God. "We're not...that's not why I'm here," he finished lamely, looking to Stiles for back-up. Unfortunately, the poor kid was busy mutilating his dinner and turning an uncomfortable-looking shade of crimson.

"Good," the sheriff said, swallowing the last of his food and standing up. "I'm glad to hear that. Now, I think you can help Stiles clean up the table, can't you? And then I think you'd best be headed home." He smiled and patted Stiles' shoulder on the way out of the room.

"Oh my God," Stiles said once he was gone. "That was...You can go. Seriously. And like, never come back. Jesus, that was mortifying."

Tempting as it was to take Stiles up on the offer of a hasty escape, Derek knew it wasn't the  _friendly_  thing to do. He gritted his teeth and began collecting dishes. "I don't mind helping," he said, as nicely as he could manage.

Stiles shook his head. "No, seriously. I've got this. Just..." He waved towards the door, the haphazard stack of plates in his hand wobbling precariously.

Now what? Peter had said to ingratiate himself. Suppressing a sigh, Derek leaned against the table and put on his most charming smile. "Then how about coffee tomorrow? No awkward interruptions from your dad. We can just...talk about...stuff." Derek was at a loss. "Video games? We can talk about video games. Or..." He caught hold of a thought and had to stop himself from clapping triumphantly. "Werewolves! I'm sure there are some things you're wondering about that Google can't answer."

He had him. Stiles chewed his lower lip and looked as though he wanted to say no, but neither of them were surprised when he finally said, "All right." He looked at Derek suspiciously and then shook his head. "This is too bizarre."

"What is?" Derek asked.

"You, being nice." Stiles laughed and shook his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume there was some sort of plot being hatched. As a matter of fact, I don't know better. But..." He pursed his lips. "I want to know how you did that thing with your scent. So, all right. Coffee tomorrow."

"I'll pick you up," Derek said quickly, making his escape into the cool evening air and letting some of the tension out of his rigid back.

\---

Derek drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove to Stiles' house, feeling ansty and irritable, the way he always did when something big was on the horizon and he wasn't as prepared as he'd like to be. This thing with Scott should have been taken care of already, and it annoyed him that it wasn't. But Peter was right. The task was worthwhile. Didn't make it any less nettlesome.

He screeched to a stop outside Stiles' house and pressed hard on the horn three times. He hadn't told Stiles when he'd be coming, but it didn't surprise him to see Stiles tumbling out of his front door only moments later, tugging on a hoodie and carrying his sneakers by the laces. Pink-cheeked and breathless, Stiles yanked open the door and slipped inside, tugging on his sneakers before clicking on his seatbelt. He looked up at Derek expectantly, panting a little from his apparent exertions. "Hey," he said, giving an awkward little wave.

"Were you sleeping?" Derek asked, one eyebrow carefully arched. Stiles nodded and fought off a yawn. Derek's eyebrow rose higher. "It's nearly noon."

"Yeah, well. You screwed up my schedule yesterday."

Lie. What was he doing up so late last night? Derek shook his head. Why did he care? It wasn't any of his business. All he had to do was make the kid like him; taking a genuine interest in his life was not only totally unnecessary but also completely not something Derek was interested in. He rearranged his expression into something pleasant and shifted into gear, revving away from the house as quickly as he could manage.

\---

The coffee-house was busy, people chatting or doing homework at nearly every table. Derek gave Stiles the directive of finding a reasonably secluded spot and bought them each a regular black coffee, grabbing a handful of sugar and creamer for Stiles.

He slid into one of the two empty seats Stiles had found underneath a speaker that pumped out some warbling crooner singing over the strumming of an acoustic guitar and set the coffees on the table. Stiles seemed happily surprised by the bounty of sugar he was offered and set off immediately on tearing the packets open and stirring them into his drink, while Derek tried very hard not to tap on the table and took small, measured sips of his own coffee while ignoring the fact that it was still, honestly, a bit too hot for his liking.

Several moments passed. People around them laughed and clattered their dishes and clicked on their keyboards. The stack of shredded sugar packets grew larger and larger. Finally, Stiles spoke. "I think I figured it out. You just roll around on the ground, right? The research wasn't very suggestive, but that's what I'm thinking. It's sort of what hunters do, y'know. You want to smell like deer urine; you soak yourself in deer urine. You want to smell like dirt; you cover yourself in dirt."

"Did you really stay awake all night reading about deer urine?" Derek asked, smiling a little despite himself.

"No," Stiles said quickly. "That was the night before." He took a sip of his coffee and winced horribly before sticking out his tongue and making an exaggerated 'ouch' face. "How are you drinking that? It's like two hundred degrees too hot for human consumption."

Derek shrugged. "I'm not human," he said, taking another careful sip.

Stiles seemed like he was torn between laughing and being impressed. He folded his arms and settled on a half-smile. "So am I right?"

"No." Derek allowed himself one quick, rolling tap of his fingers against the table. "It's about intent. I intended to smell like the woods, so I did. It isn't perfect, but-"

"Wait." Stiles leaned forward, his normally-round eyes even larger than usual. "It's like with the mountain ash? You just hope it will work, and it does? How does that even work?"

Derek could hardly tell him the truth, so he settled on an approximation. "Certain beings have certain skills. As a werewolf, I can do the obvious- shift- but there are other...perks. The heightened senses. The ability to heal and to take another living thing's pain. The power of intent. I could show you, but you wouldn't notice I was doing it. Humans. Your sense of smell is abysmal."

"I'll try it, then, and you tell me if it's working," Stiles announced, sitting up straight and closing his eyes.

"It won't work. You're..." He stopped, a rush of electricity dancing up his spine. Stiles' scent was gone. Completely, totally gone. The smell of coffee had grown more overpowering, true, but there wasn't even the slightest hint of Stiles mixed in with it.

It was more than Derek himself could have done. It was more than any wolf Derek had ever known could have done, in fact. There was only one explanation...and the ramifications of that were staggering.  _Wait until I tell Peter,_  Derek thought, fully aware of how wide his eyes must have been.  _Those Alphas have no idea what they're in for._

Stiles opened his eyes, and his scent returned at once, imbuing the air with eau de Tide and teenage hormones once again. "How'd I do?" He looked at Derek's expression and winced. "I was going for coffee...what did I do? Garbage? Something worse?"

"You did fine," Derek answered, his voice perhaps a little more gruff than he intended. He couldn't sit here sipping coffee like nothing had happened, though. He needed to go talk to Peter, to readjust their plans. Scott would still be useful, of course, but Stiles...

...How had it taken him this long to realize what Stiles was?

"Come on," Derek said, standing and yanking on his coat, nervous energy flowing through his veins. "I'm taking you home."

 


	6. Chapter 6

"Stop being so quiet," Scott complained during lunch the next day. They were sitting alone; for various reasons, everyone else had other places to be. "It's weird."

Stiles looked up from the mutant paste on his plate (beef stroganoff according to the lunch staff; dinosaur vomit according to his taste buds) and pulled a face. "I'm not being quiet. I'm thinking. There's a difference."

"About the scent thing?" Scott leaned forward. "Because I have some ideas-"

"What? No, that's already figured out," Stiles replied, pushing his plate away and leaning forward as well so he could drop his voice. "Derek said it's just intent, like with the mountain ash."

Scott's eyebrows jumped up. "Derek said? When did you talk to him?"

Letting a long breath, Stiles looked around and licked his lips. "He came over to my house on Saturday for  _no reason_  and then just...invited himself to eat dinner with me and my dad."

Now Scott's brows were pulled together and his head was tilted to one side. He looked like a confused puppy. "Dude. Seriously?"

"Yes!" Stiles looked around furtively and went on: "And then he took me out for coffee on Sunday. What the hell, right?"

A sneaky expression was stealing onto Scott's face. "Coffee, huh?"

"No!" Not Scott, too! Stiles clawed at his hair. "I mean, yes, but not like that!"

Scott was still grinning like the cat who got the canary. "Think about it, bro: if you were a girl and Derek was doing all that stuff, what would you think? He came over for a family dinner and took you out on a coffee date." At Stiles' stricken expression, Scott laughed and whispered, "Dude! Derek has the biggest crush on you! He wants to get gay-married and have your adopted babies!"

"No, shut up, stop that." Stiles could  _feel_ how pale his face was. "Seriously, no. That doesn't even make sense. We barely get along! He tries to kill me on a regular basis."

"Maybe Derek still flirts like a fifth-grader. Y'know, shoving and hair-pulling and stuff like that." Scott shrugged. "To be fair to him, you  _did_ have him arrested for the murder of his own sister. And you kinda suggest we leave him for dead, like, all the time. So maybe it's a love-hate thing." Scott grinned again, clearly pleased with himself. "Is that what it is? You guys loooooove each other."

"Would you stop that?" Stiles hissed, looking around worriedly. "Who's side are you on here, anyway?"

Scott only leaned back in his chair, taking a crisp bite from the apple he'd swiped from Stiles' plate when he wasn't paying attention.

"You're the worst," Stiles groaned, putting his head in his hands.

\---

Derek was in Stiles' bedroom when he got home, sitting very nonchalantly at his computer and frowning at the lunar calendar Stiles had saved as his desktop.

"Awesome," Stiles sighed, clunking his backpack down by the door. "Why am I constantly beset by werewolves? I swear you guys are like a plague."

When Derek turned to face Stiles, he managed to look even grumpier than usual. "Why do you have all these books?" he asked, slapping a stack Stiles was sure had been properly shelved when he'd left that morning.

The titles seemed to have a common theme. The Farmer's Almanac. Medicinal Herbs: A Beginner's Guide. Edible and Poisonous Plants of Northern California. Stiles' mom's old tarot book. Beasts Factual and Fantastic. The Monster Spotter's Guide to North America.

Stiles scanned the titles and looked up at Derek's worried face confusedly. "Isn't it obvious? My best friend is a werewolf. An actual werewolf. And this town has more supernatural occurrences than freakin' Sunnydale. I like to be prepared." He snatched the books up and sniffed, "Not that it's any of your business."

Derek looked unappeased. "Why do you take it upon yourself to study all of this? Curiosity? Or something else?"

"Always with the nosy questioning," Stiles huffed as he reshelved his books. "I study it because no one else is going to even though someone clearly  _needs_  to. Plus, it's interesting. Now, as enjoyable as all this has been, it's a school night and I have homework-"

"That can wait. You're going to hang out with me right now."

Stiles closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked together. What? He turned around, but Derek was still wearing his usual serious face. "We're doing what?"

"Hanging out," Derek repeated, still solemn and tight-jawed. He fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out a brown paper bag, which he tossed to Stiles. "I brought you a burrito."

It was cold- and not just a little smushed- but it was, in fact, a burrito.  _Holy shit_ , Stiles thought, staring down at the floppy beef-and-cheese in his hands.  _Derek is totally in love with me._

"What?" Derek asked, looking uncomfortable. "Why are you nervous? It's not poisoned."

"Oh." Stiles swallowed audibly, feeling his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "I...uh...I'm not-"

"Liar."

Okaaaay. Thinking on his feet, Stiles snatched up a PS3 controller and threw it to Derek. "I'm worried that you're going to completely suck ass at zombies and I'm going to have to carry us the whole time. Prove me wrong, Mr. Alpha."

Derek looked at the controller like he'd never seen one in his life, before looking up at Stiles. "What?"

\---

Derek was bad at CoD. Like, really bad. Abominably bad. So bad that they usually didn't even reach the oh-shit-zombie-swarm part before Derek was frantically smashing buttons and yelling- despite being about four inches away from him on the edge of the bed- for Stiles to come save him. So when Stiles suggested Derek play in training mode for a little while just to get used to the controls, it was definitely not so he could casually observe him while Derek was distracted. Nope. It was totally for Derek's own good.

Still. There might have been some stealthy observations going on.

Stiles was pretty comfortable with his sexuality. Comfortable enough that he could joke around about it with Scott, who'd known him pretty much all his life, and comfortable enough that he could look at dudes like Danny or Derek appreciatively without freaking out about it later. It helped that his mom and dad had known he was an equal-opportunity kind of guy since he was a kid (can't really deny it when you get sent home from Boy Scouts for 'behaving inappropriately' with your tentmate- who, Stiles has always added adamantly, was totally amenable to what they were getting into) and they were never anything less than completely supportive. Sometimes too supportive. Just thinking about the version of 'the talk' he got was still enough to make him cringe.

But it was one thing to be comfortable with it in theory, when the statistical likelihood of getting some action from  _anyone_ these days, regardless of gender, was pretty much nil...and a whole other thing being comfortable with it in practice, when he was sitting one hand's width from a smoking hot twenty-something-year-old dude who maybe wanted to get into his pants. There was nothing comfortable about that. Stiles was mainly terrified...but also surprisingly interested, considering how not-an-option the very concept had seemed a few days ago.

"Stop watching me," Derek snarled. "I play like shit when you're looking."

"You play like shit pretty much always," Stiles diverted, grabbing up his controller and returning his attention to the TV. "Ready to give it another try?"

"No," Derek answered immediately.

Stiles grinned and started setting up a game. "Thatta boy," he said, poking Derek with his elbow. "We'll show those zombie bastards this time."

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're mardy bum...

They fell into a strangely easy routine. Derek would climb through Stiles' bedroom window a few minutes before school let out and look around. He hadn't found any real evidence that Stiles knew what he was (the books were the most incriminating, and Stiles' excuse for them had been decently solid), but Derek wasn't the sort that trusted easy, so he kept looking.

Then, when Stiles got home, he'd set up a video game he wanted Derek to figure out and Derek would play it (or mash buttons and curse, as the case often was) while Stiles did his homework and occasionally called out advice or made extremely unhelpful quips about what Derek should have done rather than what he actually did.

So it was that on Friday afternoon Derek was sitting on the floor leaning against Stiles' bed and hunting a moose with a battle-axe across the vast snowy lands of Winterhold, while Stiles was sprawled across the bed surrounded by textbooks and making little disapproving noises.

"You know," Stiles said, making Derek's lip purse together, "that would be about three hundred times easier with a bow and arrow."

"I know that," Derek growled, pressing his character forward. "I'm enjoying the challenge."

Stiles made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed laugh, and when he spoke again there was a smile in his voice. "You can make your guy into a werewolf, if you want. I can show you."

"I'm a werewolf in real life; I think some of the novelty's worn off by now."

"You could make him a vampire, then." Stiles turned a page and yawned. "Are you any good at balancing chemical equations?"

Before Derek could answer (with an emphatic "no"; he hadn't been required to memorize things for chemistry in, what, eight years?) Stiles phone went off. He fumbled around for it in his blankets for a moment before answering: "Hello? Oh, hey. Lydia. What's up?"

Derek relented in his pursuit of the tireless moose and let his concentration slip to the voice on the other line. "-party tonight," Lydia was saying quickly. "And before you say anything, no- it's not going to be like the last time. I'm actually throwing this party myself so it's going to be _awesome_ and completely not a drug-fest or whatever. You're coming. Wear your red hoodie but put a blazer over it, mmkay? And, um, your tightest jeans. Don't dress slobby; don't embarrass me. See you at ten." She hung up before Stiles could get a single word in edgewise.

"Okay," Stiles said to the dead line, "sounds, uh, great. See you then." He hung up and flumped face-first into the bed. "Want to go to a party tonight?" he asked, voice muffled.

He was inviting Derek? To a high school party? Derek considered that for a moment. Did that mean he considered Derek his friend now, or was he only inviting him because he was there and it was polite? It was difficult to suppress the growl growing in his throat; he hated these stupid social interactions because he never knew how he was supposed to react. It was easier with his own kind, with a pack. There were strict rules that governed every interaction. Human interactions were messy and emotional. It was all enough to make his head pound. "No thanks," he said, laying the controller down and standing. "Not really my thing."

"What, parties?" Stiles looked up at him. "It's just Lydia's house. Scott will be there, and Allison. Jackson will, definitely. Probably Isaac, too. It's not like you won't know anybody. And...look, I'm the biggest dork around, okay? So, if you- I don't know- start feeling out of place or whatever just...come find me."

Peter would want him to go. Peter wanted an awful lot from him these days, though. Who was the Alpha in this pack? Him, or Peter? "I have better things to do tonight," Derek said, not quite meeting Stiles' eyes, "but thanks."

Stiles reeled back a little. "Better things like what? Brooding at your house alone- or worse, with your creepy uncle?"

Irritation pulsed through Derek's system, as warm and steady as blood. "Did you ever think maybe I have a good reason to 'brood'?"

"Right," Stiles said, climbing to his feet, "because you're the only one who's ever lost anybody." He seemed to realize what he'd just said all at once, because his mouth went slack and he took a step back. "Shit. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant-"

"You meant what you said." Derek wasn't going to let him back down this easily. He took a few steps forward and closed the space between them. "Your mom died in a car accident. My entire family was burned alive. Oh," he added, "except for my sister. Who was torn in half and left out in the woods for  _me_ to find and bury."

Stiles swallowed hard, but he didn't look away from Derek's eyes. "I'm not having a pissing contest with you over who's got the worst life. And _you_  let your sister's killer back into your house, your pack...it isn't right-"

"That's not for you to decide. Peter's changed."

"Yeah, he's joined the undead. That's one helluva change, I've gotta say."

With a warning growl, Derek pushed Stiles up against the wall. His claws were extending slowly and he knew he needed to leave, and soon, before he did something stupid. "You don't know anything about Peter, and you don't know anything about me." His heart was pounding, his vision was beginning to shift...before things could get any worse, Derek let Stiles go and slipped out of the window and into the blazing afternoon sunlight.

\---

"Well, that was stupid," Peter said. He was sitting in front of the fireplace, wrapped up in an old moth-eaten fleece blanket and poking at the embers absently. "You should have gone to the party."

Derek let out a roar of frustration. "I am the Alpha! You don't get to tell me what to do."

Peter chuckled and looked away from the flames amusedly. "You think I don't know that? Derek, dearest, you tell me you're the Alpha every ten minutes. I'm not likely to forget." He stood up and walked over to Derek, taking Derek's chin is his cold hand. "I'm trying to help you. I want our pack to be great. That's all."

Pushing Peter's hand away, Derek stepped back, his eyes bright and his nostrils flaring. "That may be the case, but the plan you've come up with? It's through. Think of something else. I'm not doing it anymore."

"But it's been going so well..." Peter licked his lips. "We both know what Stiles is. If you think I'm just going to let that slip through my fingers-"

"I don't care how you bring him into the pack," Derek rumbled, "but I don't want any part of it. I'm not..." He faltered. Normal? Trustworthy? Someone Stiles could ever actually like? Did any of that actually matter? He was supposed to be playing a role. But the role left him feeling hollow and sick and angry. "I'm not well-suited to the task. Have Isaac do it. Just leave me out of it."

Peter scrutinized him for a moment, then nodded. "As you command."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect me to update this quickly on a regular basis, haha. My day off and the urge to write happened to coincide.

Stiles wasn't often drunk. He wasn't really that kind of kid, honestly, and even if he had been...his dad was the sheriff, and his best friend couldn't even get drunk. What was the point?

But at Lydia's party...well, Stiles might have gotten a little wobbly. It wasn't like he went there with that strict intention, but seeing Lydia hanging all over Jackson all night had been a little grating. And Scott and Allison were fighting...again, so there was no one Stiles could talk to about Derek. Isaac wasn't there, not that he and Stiles were besties or anything anyway. Danny had brought his new boyfriend and was public demonstrating his kissing skills in a corner. Most of the other attendees were Lydia's popular friends- who, Stiles suspected, had mostly shown up so they'd have something to talk about on Monday- and older kids that Stiles didn't know.

So, all right, setting himself up next to the bar wasn't strictly necessary. But it meant that he didn't have to get up when he wanted a drink (which was often) and sometimes people would talk to him while they were pouring their own drinks, which was kinda nice.

Most of the night, though, he was alone with his thoughts. And most of thoughts were centering around Derek.

See, here's where Stiles was getting stuck: after he'd said that incredibly assholish thing he'd said (and still couldn't believe had actually tumbled out of his mouth) he'd immediately backed off...but now he wasn't so sure he should have. Because the more he drank, and the more he considered, the more he thought that the look he'd seen on Derek's face hadn't really been anger at all. It had been surprise. And maybe something else, something Stiles thought looked a lot like acknowledgment. Like Derek had only just remembered that what Stiles said was true. Even the anger that had came afterward hadn't felt like it was directed at Stiles; honestly, it just seemed like Derek was angry with himself.

Stiles was sort of angry with himself, too. Because whatever it was that he and Derek had been doing all week? He'd been enjoying it. And letting Derek get all self-loathy and run off wasn't the right thing to have done.

All of this ran through Stiles' mind for a few hours, and then before he knew it he was saying good night to Lydia and asking her if he could leave his car at her house because he wasn't really okay to drive.

\---

The walk to Derek's house wasn't too far, just a couple of miles, but it felt like he'd walked the whole state of California by the time he finally reached the woods that surrounded Hale house. Stiles pulled his hood up as he ducked in between the trees, shivering and watching his breath fog up around him. He wasn't even trying to be quiet because a) Derek was a werewolf and would hear him anyway and b) he was way too drunk for stealth. Plus he kinda hoped Derek would meet him halfway or something. He was cold and the prospect of getting lost really didn't appeal to him that much.

Of course, neither did arguing in the woods. But hopefully they wouldn't be arguing. Making out would be nice. That's something he'd be totally fine with, in the woods or the house or...yeah, wherever. Stiles was totally down with that.

A tree root made sudden contact with his foot and he went down with such a lack of grace it was almost funny. Almost. The stinging cuts on his hands kept him from laughing out loud like a drunken psychopath. Cursing, Stiles stood up on noodly legs and resumed his walk...but he didn't get far. One second he was crashing through the underbrush, and the next he was soaring through the air and landing with an "oomph" on a tree branch. Someone was holding him, someone strong with sharp fingernails that were digging into his arms. And that someone wasn't alone.

Nothing really sobers you up, Stiles discovered, like unexpectedly flying through the air to find yourself faced with three pairs of glowing eyes. It wasn't entirely the cold that was making him shake anymore.

"What have we here?" purred a female voice in his ear. The speaker dug her claws in further and dragged her nose down the length of his neck, inhaling deeply. Then she sat up straight and loosened her grip slightly. "Oh. I think this one might be kept."

"Kept?" A male voice, from somewhere to Stiles' right. Presumably the voice went with the pair of green eyes shining from a neighboring tree. "What sort of barbaric pack are we dealing with here?"

"I don't know, but he reeks of wolf." The woman took another, more tentative sniff. "The strongest scents belong to two betas. There's another beta and an alpha, but they're less prominent. The other beta, especially. I can barely pick him up at all."

"And the boy is human?" another male voice, belonging to the amethyst eyes a few branches up.

"So far as I can tell. You'd tell us if you were something special, wouldn't you sweetheart?" There was something Southern about her accent, just a trace of a drawl that Stiles committed to memory.

"Sure," Stiles agreed amiably, trying to keep his breathing even and his pulse somewhere near normal. He didn't want them to know he was frightened. He wanted them to think he had no reason to be, that maybe his pack would be coming along any second now. "But there's really nothing to tell. I'm just a regular old human who happens to have a whole lot of not-so-human friends."

The woman laughed throatily and pulled him closer. "I like you," she purred. "Hunting you is gonna be so fun."

"We can't hunt him if he's kept," Green Eyes pointed out, allowing Stiles to let out the shakiest sigh of relief ever. "It'll start a pack war, and that's not why we're here."

"Hmph," pouted the woman. "What will we do with him, then?"

"Let him go," said Purple Eyes. Stiles felt himself sag with gratitude. "With a message, of course. For the Alpha."

The woman giggled and tucked her chin up against Stiles' shoulder. "I like that idea just fine. How serious a message?"

"An actual message," Purple Eyes growled. "Tell your Alpha that he will present himself to us properly in two days time, with his pack and any other kept or mated humans at his back. We'll come to his den. The moon will be past, so we shall expect to see any new-made pups there as well. Tell your Alpha that we've spared your life out of respect and courtesy, and that we expect to be treated in a similar manner. Tell him that any attempts at...discourtesy will be punished severely. If he knows anything of the old ways, he will know what to expect. If not..." There was a pregnant silence. "He'll certainly find out."

"He needn't look for us," Green Eyes reiterated. "We'll come to him. Two days. Make sure to tell him."

"I'll tell him," Stiles said quickly. "I'll tell him right now, if you'll just put me back on the ground again."

The woman laughed, and Purple Eyes announced, "Sam, take him down."

In an instant Stiles was sitting on the forest floor in a bed of damp leaves, with a surprisingly thin and pretty little blonde looking down at him. "See you soon, sweetie," she grinned before disappearing back up into the trees. Stiles swallowed and clambered shakily to his feet, before turning and running to Derek's house as fast as he could.


	9. Chapter 9

He smelled him before anything else, that familiar hint of Tide mingled with an unfamiliar brand of aftershave (which Derek placed, after a moment, as belonging to Stiles' dad) and an almost overpowering rush of vodka and pomegranate juice. Because Derek wasn't good enough at finding trouble on his own, God decided to send him a drunken teenager. Great.

"Don't follow me," Derek said to Peter as he tugged on his coat. Peter raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead turning back to the fire with the slightest hint of a smug smile. Derek chose to ignore that, for the time being. First he would get rid of Stiles, then he'd deal with Peter's insubordination for the hundredth time. The work of an Alpha was never done.

Stiles was crashing out of the thicket and into Derek's clearing when Derek stepped outside. "Stiles, go home," he called, taking the steps slowly, his arms crossed. "You're-" He stopped. Something about Stiles' scent wasn't right.

He smelled like fear.

In an instant he was there at the edge of the woods, grabbing Stiles by the arms and looking him over. Up close he could smell so many other things: a hint of blood, sweat, the lingering scents of a few dozen humans...and Alphas. Three of them. One had been holding Stiles, pressed up against his back-

"Would you stop snuffling all over the place so I can just tell you what happened?" Stiles whined, but there was such immense relief in his voice it stopped Derek still. Stiles felt safe with him. Overwhelmingly safe. When did that happen?

"Did they hurt you?" Derek asked, still looking for the source of the blood smell. Stiles shook his head, and Derek clenched his jaw. "I smell blood. _Your_  blood."

Stiles raised his hands sheepishly, presenting some dirty cuts and scrapes. "I tripped," he explained. "I was a little drunk when I started through the woods. Your werewolf friends sobered me up nicely, though."

"They aren't friends of mine," Derek said. Most of his more lupine acquaintances lived in the Seattle area, or they were long since dead. Leaning in, Derek inhaled deeply. Alphas. All three of the wolves he was smelling were Alphas.

They were here.

"Tell me everything," Derek growled. And Stiles hastily complied.

\---

"They were here," Stiles said, hugging his arms around his chest and looking at the treetops worriedly. "They were right here. Look- you can see where I tripped, right over there."

It was true. Derek could smell them still, the hint of their presence lingering amid the leaves, but they were long gone. He could trace the scent...but he didn't want to bring Stiles along for that. "Dammit," he swore, looking up at the waning moon like it was at fault.

"You could start after them," Stiles suggested, missing the point entirely. "I'll run back to Lydia's and grab the jeep, and then you can text me and we'll meet up. I'll bring the others, if you want. And weapons. We'll probably need some of those. Maybe-"

"You idiot." Derek had to stop himself from grabbing Stiles and shaking him. "You have no idea how much danger you were in tonight."

"Um, yeah I do! They were talking about hunting me, dude. Didn't sound nice." Stiles seemed to remember something. "Actually, the only reason they didn't is because they said I was 'kept' and that it was a barbaric practice or whatever. So...what does that mean? What did they mean by 'kept'?"

Despite his grim mood, Derek felt a smile threatening to break out across his face. "They thought you were kept? What, by me?"

"By the entire pack, apparently." Stiles rubbed his jaw...and then paused, his mouth going slack. "Wait a second. They weren't...they didn't..." Derek's laughter gave him away, and Stiles looked at him with a cross between shock and horrified amusement. "Aw, no! Am I going to get some sort of reputation with werewolves, now? I don't want random dudes coming up to me and assuming I'm down with a nice old-fashioned gangbang because they heard it from so-and-so who heard it from whatshisname."

It took Derek a moment to pull himself back together, and when he did he shook his head. "No, I don't imagine you'll be approached by a werewolf at all as long as that rumor's going around." He wiped at his eyes and shook his head. "Kept. Jesus. I don't think there's any pack in the country that still does that."

"Yeah, well. Don't get any ideas, buddy." Stiles brushed at his jacket huffily. His expression going serious, Stiles said, "By the way, I tried to collect as much information as I could about them. I don't know if it's helpful, but one of them was female. Cute. Petite blonde, maybe 5'4" or 5'5". Looked like she was in her late twenties. Hint of a Southern accent. If I spent some time on YouTube looking up regional dialects I could probably place it more specifically, but I thinking she's probably from the South Atlantic area? One of the guys called her Sam." He took a deep breath and went on. "I didn't get much on the guys, just that there were two of them and neither of them had defining accents. One sounded like he was in his thirties, maybe, but the other sounded a lot older than that. Fifty or so, I'd guess."

For a human with limited use of his senses, Stiles had done amazingly well. There was an odd sensation swelling Derek's chest, something very reminiscent of pride, like it was one of his own pack-mates who'd done something right instead of just Stiles. "You have no idea," Derek said softly, looking at Stiles with concern. He didn't care what Peter said; Stiles had to know. He had to be able to protect himself. He deserved that, at least.

Stiles licked his lips and took a step forward, lifting his chin. "No idea about what?" he asked nervously, meeting Derek's eyes. His heart was thrumming, making Derek anxious. The sound of it reminded Derek of Stiles' fragility. Well, after tonight Stiles wouldn't be fragile anymore. He'd learn how to take care of himself. Derek would see to that.

"About what you are," Derek said. His voice was hushed, reverent. News like this deserved respect.

Was it a trick of the light, or were Stiles' pupils wider than normal? "What am I?" Stiles breathed, flitting his gaze down to Derek's mouth.

Derek raised his eyebrow and cleared his throat. "Stiles, you're a thaumaturge."

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of using all the definitions of thaumaturgy and not just the strictly Christian ones, so don't be surprised if I play with the boundaries a little bit.

"I'm a  _what_?" Stiles took a step back and shook his head as though to clear it. Here he'd been expecting some sweet romantic confessions and maybe a bit of tonsil hockey, and instead Derek was throwing SAT words at him and expecting him to keep up?

"It means miracle-worker," Derek sighed. "Or mage, essentially. Or..or..."

"Wizard." Palms pressed to his face, Stiles dead-panned: "You're telling me I'm a wizard." That was...great. Just great. He'd been dreaming about having his yer-a-wizard-Harry moment since he was a kid, but he never would have cast Derek Hale as his Hagrid.

Sweet baby Jesus. He was going insane, wasn't he?

Derek, instead of laughing and pointing out the hidden cameras, shook his head and let out a breath. "There are people who call themselves wizards, and you're not one. Everything they learn, they learn it from books...or each other. Your skill is innate."

"You're being serious right now, aren't you? See, 'cause I keep expecting the punchline and it's just not coming."

"Stiles," Derek said solemnly, "I couldn't be more serious. This is...You're in a great deal of danger, do you understand? If those other werewolves had known what you are, they'd have never let you go."

Derek didn't look like he was kidding, not even a little bit. Stiles leaned back against a tree trunk and watched his breath unfurl in front of him for a little while, his mind racing. "How do you know?" he said after a moment, looking up at Derek without a trace of sarcasm lining his face. "How can you be sure I'm a...thermopolis or whatever?"

"Thaumaturge. And I know because you can do things that no human should be able to do."

"The scent thing." Stiles thought back to the Sunday before, his eyes going wide. "You were going to tell me I couldn't do it, but then I did. And that's why you looked so weirded out."

"That, yeah," Derek agreed. "And then I remembered the mountain ash. Stiles, if you were just a regular human that wouldn't have worked. It just wouldn't have. You can call it intent or magic or whatever you want, but normal humans can't do it."

The mountain ash. Holy crap, how had that slipped his mind? "You didn't see," he told Derek, speaking slowly. "There wasn't enough ash, it wasn't going to connect. So I closed my eyes and just... _believed_ that it would work. And it did." He looked up at Derek, suddenly breathless. "How did I do that?"

"It's your gift," Derek said simply. "I can't believe it took me this long to put everything together." He shrugged. "There's been a lot going on."

"That's the understatement of the century." Was it the vodka or the shock making Stiles' stomach churn so much? "Wait. Dr. Deaton gave me that mountain ash. He believed it would work. Why would he do that?"

"Deaton knows things," Derek said, all too casually in Stiles' opinion. "He probably recognized it in you."

"You weren't going to tell me," Stiles said suddenly. "I'm some sort of  _thing_ and you weren't even going to tell me. How long were you going to let me go on thinking I was...just..."

"Ordinary?" Derek looked up at the sky, his hands in his pockets. "Thaumaturges are really rare.  _Really_  rare. And incredibly powerful. A lot of thaumaturges have been sainted by the Catholic Church. It's...it's an immense power. I just wasn't sure-"

"-if I could handle it," Stiles whispered. His hands were shaking something fierce, and the feeling in his stomach was getting worse. "Well, I have to learn, don't I? It's who I am."

"Stiles." Derek was close, close enough that Stiles could feel his breath warming his cheek with every exhale. He was used to Derek invading his personal space- as a matter of fact, he'd never met a supernatural being with a good grasp of how close they should stand to another person- but this felt somehow different. Maybe because Derek didn't look like he wanted to kill him. "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't think you could handle it."

Maybe it was because it was nearly two in the morning, or maybe it was the warm body only inches from his own, but Stiles felt himself relax, his shoulders sagging as he breathed out. "What do I do now?" he asked.

"Tomorrow I'll take you to see Deaton," Derek answered calmly. There was an odd quality to his voice, soothing but authoritative. "Tonight you'll stay with me."

"At your house?" A thrill of panic rolled through him. "Peter's there, isn't he?"

Derek huffed out a breath. "I'll send him away. I'm not leaving you alone. If those other werewolves realize what they passed up on..." He left the sentence unfinished, but Stiles was more than capable of filling in a thousand different dire consequences.

"Okay," Stiles said, nodding slowly. "All right. But just for tonight. I don't care if I'm a thaumaturtle or not, my dad is so not going to be okay with this arrangement."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think I'm done for the night, lol. I'll probably post another chapter or two tomorrow?


	11. Chapter 11

Peter was gone when Derek and Stiles reached the house, the embers in the fireplace burning low. Derek set Stiles to poking them and adding some wood while he rummaged up a few things from upstairs. He dragged down the air mattress he'd been sleeping on and a few musty quilts, and he set up the bed up near enough to the fire that Stiles would be at least sort of comfortable. It had been a long time since he'd even bothered with any form of hospitality, and the awkwardness of it set Derek on edge...but luckily, the kid was so exhausted he didn't look twice at the set-up. Within moments of lying down, Stiles was soundly sleeping, his mouth slack and his limbs stretched out all over the place.

Derek sat down beside the fire and considered him for awhile. He thought about what it would be like to have an honest-to-God miracle-worker in his pack, and what it would mean for their security. He thought about what he could do to train Stiles up, to make him stronger and more capable in his abilities, and what Deaton would be able to tell them in the morning. He wondered at Stiles' control, the way he only used his gift when and how he intended. Was that true of all thaumaturges? Or was Stiles exceptional?

A noise outside drew his attention momentarily (nothing to worry about, just Peter stalking around in the woods), and when he looked back at Stiles he found he was being watched. Stiles' eyes were barely open, a little smile playing at his lips. "Were you watching me sleep?" he asked, his voice groggy. "Derek, you old romantic." He shifted, stretched, patted the space he'd made beside himself. "You don't have to watch; you're welcome to actively participate."

Derek hesitated. He  _was_ tired, and with the Alphas around he didn't expect he'd be getting much sleep in the next few nights. And Stiles was waving him over encouragingly, leaving plenty of room right near the fire...

He stood and kicked off his shoes, pulled off his shirt, and climbed into the bed warily, keeping a good six inches or so between himself and Stiles. It didn't seem to matter much to his bedmate- who rolled onto his stomach and slipped back into sleep as soon Derek had stilled- but Derek found there was a certain comfort in respecting boundaries.

\---

He woke up with Stiles stretched sideways across the bed, his face pressed into Derek's back and his arms thrown over Derek's body. The places where their skin touched felt sweat-slick and too warm, but he wasn't necessarily uncomfortable. There was something about it his wolf found agreeable, something  _pack_ that soothed his wilder nature. Which was ridiculous, but true nonetheless.

Stiles stirred against him, drawing in a breath and smacking his lips. He wiped at a damp spot on Derek's back and chuckled. "Oh gross," he said, his laughter sleep-rough and careless. "Sorry about that." Then, instead of hauling himself up as Derek expected, he settled back down and traced his finger along the tattoo on Derek's back.

A shiver wended its way up Derek's spine. He thought about pushing Stiles away, or growling, or doing  _anything_ other than lying still...but he didn't. The morning felt too lazy for anger. Instead he folded his arms and laid his head on one of his biceps, peeking at Stiles over his shoulder.

"This must have taken forever," Stiles mumbled, watching his finger drag across Derek's skin. "When did you get it done?"

"Mm." Derek closed his eyes and considered. "I think I was about your age. It was before-" He stopped abruptly, his eyes snapping open. What the hell? Derek didn't talk about 'before'. It hurt too much, and the hurt almost always transformed itself into fury. But he wasn't feeling furious; he felt sleepy, his bones heavy and his eyes already sliding closed again. Stiles was still tracing the curls of his tattoo, but his finger was moving more slowly now, his touch feather-light.

"Did everyone in your pack get a triskelion tattoo?" Stiles asked around a yawn. Derek shot him a questioning look and he smiled. "What? I told you, man: Google."

Settling his eyes closed again, Derek sighed. "Yeah, they did. It was a coming-of-age thing." He thought about his mom and the little triple spiral on her wrist, and his dad with the symbol just over his heart. He remembered the way his dad's cologne smelled, sharp and reassuring, and how he'd sat all the young cubs down one day and pointed to each spiral, saying: "Alpha. Beta. Omega. Just as every wolf can rise, so can every wolf fall." They'd never expected Derek to become an Alpha, though. He was one of the youngest, too green for the task even now. The responsibility never should have fallen to him.

Stiles' breath had gone deep and even again; he'd fallen back asleep. Derek let him stay that way for a little while longer, then woke him up by pulling out from beneath him and gruffly pointing him towards the only bathroom in the house with running water.

\---

They went to the vet's office after a quick stop-off at Burger King, Stiles insisting that only a greasy breakfast sandwich would be able to ward off his budding hang-over. If Derek swiped a few of Stiles' hash-browns and a sip or two of his orange juice, it was only because he was a touch hungry, not because he was feeling abnormally companionable. And if the occasional brush of his t-shirt against his back made him think of the whisper-soft drag of Stiles' finger along the arcs of his tattoo...well, that was only because werewolves had exceptional sense memory. Unavoidable, really.

Deaton's office was empty, like most Saturday mornings. The man himself was humming as he tapped at his computer, seemingly oblivious to Stiles' and Derek's entry. Derek knew better. Deaton was rarely oblivious to anything.

"Hello, boys," he said amiably, after a moment. "Come on in." He looked up at them and smiled disarmingly. "What can I do for you?"

Stiles spoke first, with his usual tact. "Apparently I'm a thaumaturge. Some information on that would be fabulous."

Deaton looked at Derek curiously. "You figured it out?"

"He kept performing minor miracles," Derek explained, sounding a little surly. "I was bound to put it together eventually."

Stiles scoffed, but Deaton looked at him proudly and gestured to an empty chair. "Well? Sit down. I'll tell you as much as I can." He glanced up at Derek. "If you'll excuse us?"

Derek's wolf didn't much like that.  _Calm down_ , he told himself.  _We're safe here._ He nodded brusquely and told Stiles: "I'll be right outside." Then he turned and tried not to over-think the pleased expression on Stiles' face as he walked away.

 


	12. Chapter 12

"You don't seem convinced," Deaton said softly. His hands were laced together and resting on his stomach; his expression was mild.

"I'm not," Stiles admitted. "Derek said thaumaturges are rare- like,  _crazy_  rare. So how do you guys know I'm not just something else, something less-" He huffed out a breath and sat forward. "Look, honestly, I'm not even really convinced I've done anything worth-"

"Last year," Deaton interrupted, holding up a finger. Stiles fell silent. "Last year, you brought Scott lunch one Saturday afternoon. Chinese."

"Mr. Lucky's," Stiles said, wondering what the point was. So he brought Scott lunch sometimes; that was only because he was an awesome friend. "What about it? I didn't magic up his orange chicken, I  _bought_  it."

Deaton smiled. "I watched Scott eat the last shrimp wonton from the carton that afternoon. I know for a fact it was the last one, because I was regretting not having eaten it myself." He paused for a long enough space of time that Stiles was strongly considering shouting, "And?!", before finally saying, in a dramatic tone, "But when you reached into the empty carton with your chopsticks, Stiles, there just happened to be one last wonton."

Stiles stared at him, dumbfounded. "You're kidding, right?" Deaton frowned, and Stiles sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. "You mean to tell me I've been using my magical miracle powers to conjure up extra Chinese food?"

Hands raised, Deaton shrugged. "Miracles come in many forms."

Groaning, Stiles laid his head on Dr. Deaton's cool desk. "Fantastic." He looked up at Deaton. "Have I done anything else? Preferably something less embarrassing."

"You calm the animals."

Stiles gave Deaton a skeptical look, and the veterinarian shrugged. "It's true. When you're here, they're much calmer."

"Great. So I'm basically Snow White with a penchant for free food." He rolled his eyes. "Awesome."

"No, you don't understand." Deaton seemed to deliberate for a moment before saying, with a sort of gravity that made even Stiles take him seriously, "You're not limited to those things, they're only what you've done unintentionally. With the right training, you can do anything- _absolutely anything_ \- you set your mind to doing."

Stiles' first instinct was to say something witty and dismissive...but, alarmingly, nothing was forthcoming. Instead he swallowed hard and managed to mumble, "When were you planning to tell me any of this? Ever?"

"When you were older." Something in Stiles' expression made him shake his head and add, "Not because I felt you were too immature for such a gift. That wouldn't have been my call to make, even if I did feel that way- and for the record, I don't." He sighed and glanced at the surgery table. "I only hoped you'd have the chance to live a normal life for awhile. I should have known, after the incidences of this year, that the time for such hopes was past." He looked at Stiles solemnly, his eyes kind but regretful. "Learning to use your gift properly is the best way to ensure your safety, not ignoring your gift altogether. An old man like myself should have known that."

Stiles looked at him askance. "You're, like, forty. Tops."

"Looks can be deceiving," Deaton said vaguely. "I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine. Well, I say 'friend'...The truth is, you've met my friend already, in some capacity. I believe you know Ms. Morell?"

"The guidance counselor?" Stiles blinked, then grinned. "Whoa. Is she your secret wife or something? Way to go, man."

Deaton's cheeks may have reddened slightly. "She's not my 'secret wife', no. We have a...history, shall we say. Ms. Morell and I have a great deal in common. And I believe she can help you better than I can. Will you meet with her? Say, Monday? After school?"

Stiles shrugged. "Sure, why not? Couldn't hurt."

"No," Deaton smiled. "I don't think it will."

 


	13. Chapter 13

Derek stole yet another glance at Stiles, who was folded up in the passenger seat, his arms wrapped around his knees and his forehead pressed against the window. He must've sensed Derek watching him, because their eyes met through the reflection in the glass.

"You all right?" Derek asked, the words awkward on his tongue. He brought his gaze back to the road, his jaw rigid.

"Yeah." Stiles cleared his throat. "No. I don't know. It's kind of a lot to take in." He licked his lips and sat up properly, looking at Derek for awhile before saying, quietly, "I keep wondering if I could've done anything about...if I'd known that I had this...this  _whatever_  when my mom-"

"Don't." Derek gave him a sharp look. "Don't do that. If you start doing that, you'll never stop."

Stiles looked at him silently for a moment more before nodding and curling back into his former position. "I want to be there tomorrow night," he announced as the song changed on the radio. "I'll bring Scott and Allison, too. And Mr. Argent, if you're okay with that."

And there it was: the whole point of this- of driving Stiles around in his car and playing video games together in the afternoons and sharing a few hours of sleep in front of the fire- had been achieved. It didn't feel as good as Derek had expected. Something about it sat wrong in his stomach, hard angles where it should have been smooth.

"Thanks," he said, not taking his eyes from the road. They didn't speak again except to say good-bye.

\---

Peter was waiting for him on the front porch, sitting on one of the less ruinous balustrades and smiling widely. "Did you and your teenage lover have a marvelous time on the town today?" he asked, leaping down and landing neatly on his feet. "I certainly don't need details- God knows I saw enough this morning to last me a lifetime- but I do hope this new strategy of yours has been more effective than your last one. Or did you still want me to get Isaac involved?"

Derek smiled, resisting the urge to tear Peter's smug face from his body using only his claws. "That won't be necessary."

"Oh, good," Peter said, clapping his hands together. He crinkled his nose and added, "Way to commit to the task. What's a little ephebophilia if it nets results?"

"Nothing happened," Derek growled, though he hardly needed to explain himself to Peter. He lifted his chin and said, "You'll leave Stiles alone, from here on out. We can't afford to lose him."

Peter searched his eyes for a moment and laughed. "We," he asked, his eyes dancing with something joyful and a little bit cruel, "or you?" Before Derek could answer, he stepped back and pretended to regard his fingernails. "Is he bringing Scott?"

"And the Argents. We'll be well represented."

"Shall I round up the puppies?"

Derek nodded. "Tell Jackson to bring Lydia. If Isaac has someone he's... _seeing_...tell him to bring them, as well. Same for you: if you have a mate, she needs to be there tomorrow night."

"We can't all be so lucky as you," Peter sighed. "Ah, young love. If my heart hadn't withered and died years ago, I might be envious." He winked and snatched Derek's car keys, trotting off and speeding away before Derek could even form a retort.

\---

A long shower was the best way to collect one's thoughts, or so Derek had always felt. He stood right under the shower-head and let the water beat down over him, running in rivulets down his body. His eyes were closed and his palms were pressed against the tiles, his breathing slow and steady.

Peter's comments about himself and Stiles bothered him.

For one thing, they presumed something about Derek that simply wasn't true. There had been no one since Kate, and that would never change. Especially now that Derek was an Alpha with a pack of his own to safeguard. He'd caused the death of his true family; he would never willingly endanger the family he'd built in their stead.

( _But,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind,  _Stiles isn't Kate. He's got friends in this pack. He's on your side._ )

( _You didn't think Kate was who she was, either,_ he answered himself.  _You don't know anything. What do I always say? Trust no one._ )

The second problem Derek had with Peter's comments was that it assumed Stiles had an interest in Derek that was more than friendly...but the more Derek considered that, the less of a problem it became. He thought about that morning, about lying in bed together, how natural that had felt. Friends didn't do that.

And were they even friends? The word seemed almost hokey, something to scoff at and brush aside. Derek didn't have friends, hadn't had friends since high school. He had acquaintances, he had enemies (lots of those, actually), he had his pack.

Derek twisted the tap and set his forehead against the tiles, watching water droplets fall from the tip of his nose and splatter between his feet. The biggest problem was that for years, Derek had felt nothing but rage, white-hot at first and then leveling off until it was simply apart of him, a dull throb at the back of his senses that kept him on his toes. He didn't know how to feel anything else, and he wasn't sure he wanted to learn. So what was Stiles supposed to do with that?

 


	14. Chapter 14

All Stiles wanted to do when he got home was crawl into bed, pull the covers around him into a vaguely cocoon shape, and sleep forever. Unfortunately, it became clear pretty quickly that his dreams weren't going to become reality.

The biggest indicator of that was the seriously pissed off look on his dad's face. His dad, who happened to be sitting on the stairs, watching the front door as he came in. In uniform. With a murderous glint in his eyes.

"Oh," Stiles said, closing the front door behind him. "Hey."

The way his dad's teeth were grinding like that? Yeah, not good. "Where," he said, his voice low and even but definitely not friendly, "have you been all night, Stiles? And don't tell me at Lydia's party, because everyone I asked said you left around midnight."

Ah. With everything else on his mind, Stiles had neglected to think of a cover story for his whereabouts. And he couldn't exactly tell the truth, could he? He settled on his default lie. "I was at Scott's."

"I called Scott's mother this morning assuming exactly that, so no you weren't," Stiles' dad said, his frown deepening. "And, by the way, apparently she's got something she feels she needs to tell me. Something about you and Scott and what you two have been up to all year." He worked his jaw irritably. "She said she doesn't feel comfortable talking about it over the phone, so she's gonna come over here to talk about it. So, how much jail time are we looking at here?"

"Dad, it's not-"

"Stiles, you lie to me constantly. I never know where you are or what you're doing anymore." His dad looked away, and when he spoke again his voice was frighteningly broken. "I called your teachers at home this morning because I didn't feel like I could ask you. You know, I was actually surprised to hear your attendance was as good as ever. Shocked that you still had straight A's. I don't get it. You're still the same kid at school, still well-behaved, still smart as a whip, but the rest of the time..." He looked at Stiles accusingly. "It's like I don't even know you. Why can't you be that kid all the time? Stiles, what the hell is going on?"

What could he possibly say? That secret wasn't his to tell, not even with his dad looking at him like it was breaking his heart more and more every second he went on not understanding. "We're wildlife conservationists," Stiles said lamely, hating himself a little bit for saying it.

Stiles' dad nodded slowly, his eyes sad. "Go upstairs," he said, standing slowly and smoothing the wrinkles from his pants. "You're grounded until I decide otherwise."

\---

"Dude," Stiles hissed, clutching his phone tightly, "you couldn't cover for me?"

"Sorry," Scott said, and at least he did sound a little bit petulant. "I thought you went home, so I didn't say anything to my mom. Where did you go, anyway?"

Stiles leaned back in his computer chair, almost tipped it over, and straightened back immediately, looking around even though he was alone. "Derek's," he answered, picking up a pen and chewing on the lid very unconcernedly.

"Derek's?" Scott sounded startled. "Do I even want to know what you were doing there?"

"I just went over to talk," Stiles said, which was almost true. Talk, or maybe get a little tiny bit of hot woodland action. "And then things went...crazy."

"How crazy?"

"Like, an entire pack of Alphas tried to kill me, crazy," Stiles whispered. He glanced at his door. "I guess they've got some beef with Derek, because they're coming back tomorrow night. I told Derek we'd be there so we could have his back if shit went down."

"Aw, seriously?" Scott sounded slightly less than thrilled. "On a Sunday night, though? I haven't even touched my homework."

"I'd offer to come over and help, but I'm grounded. By the way, what's all this about your mom planning to tell my dad everything that's going on? Has she totally lost it?"

"She's stressing out," Scott said apologetically. "This whole thing is, like,  _really_  bothering her. I guess she thinks she'll feel better if another adult knows? I don't see how that would help, but..."

"Yeah, but does that other adult have to be  _my_  dad? Who happens to be the freakin' sheriff?" Stiles poked his pen in the air emphatically. "Say he believes us. How's he going to be able to do his job knowing all of that? It's not like he can set aside a murder investigation because he knows there are werewolves involved and it's being handled. And say he doesn't believe us. Then what? I don't know about you, man, but I'm not really interested in finishing school via sanitarium."

"He'll have to believe us if I turn in front of him," Scott said, turning the last syllable up slightly as if he were asking for approval.

Stiles' voice was flat as he replied: "You're joking. Right? You're not seriously thinking of wolfing out in my living room with your mom and my dad in attendance. Right? Tell me I'm right, because I'm starting to think the whole nut-house idea actually might be for the best."

"Well, what else can we do? My mom's right. She's gotta tell somebody, and your dad deserves to know."

"No. No way. My dad is-" Normal? Still in comfortable grips with his sanity? "My dad has enough going on," he settled on. "He doesn't need to deal with this stuff, too. Have your mom talk to Dr. Deaton, if she needs to talk to somebody. Just make sure she leaves my dad out of this."

"Fine," Scott said, sounding very unsure. "So what's the plan for tomorrow night?"

"I'll meet you at your house around dusk." Stiles still wasn't 100% sure how he was going to pull that one off, what with being grounded and all, but it had to happen, so he'd make sure that it did. Maybe he could use his superpower somehow, maybe enchant up a floating Snickers bar for his dad to chase out into the street. Right. "Then we'll head over to Derek's. I'm not totally sure what to expect so...be ready for anything, I guess."

"All right. I guess I'll do my homework tonight, then. Allison was supposed to be coming over-"

"Oh!" Stiles slapped his forehead. "Ask her if she'll meet us tomorrow night, too. And if she can bring her dad, maybe."

"Her dad? Whoa. Okay. I guess this is pretty serious?" Scott asked slowly.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles answered, "Pack of Alphas, Scott. Yeah, I'd say that's pretty serious."

"Damn, okay," Scott said, oblivious to the sarcasm. "I'll see you tomorrow night." He hung up, and Stiles set his phone on his desk, frowning. Should he have mentioned his whole miracle-powers thing? The timing felt weird. And...well, Stiles still wasn't entirely convinced there was anything to tell.

He wished Derek was there, which was a startling thought. And it wasn't just because Derek was ridiculously built and smelled nice and had a sexy tattoo that he'd let Stiles touch, either. Stiles just had the vague sense that things were better when Derek was around- which, heaven knew, wasn't true in any kind of practical sense. But it still felt that way. Just thinking about the sleepy rumble in Derek's voice that morning made something in his chest ache in a way that...well, pretty much meant he was doomed.

There was nothing else for it. Stiles tugged off his clothes and climbed into bed, hoping to sleep for at least twelve solid hours.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Derek hadn't seen his living room this crowded since  _before_ , when his parents would host pack meetings and his aunts and uncles would bring all the little cousins over and shush them for talking over the Alpha.

Peter was sitting on the floor beside the fire, his hands on the ground at his sides and a placid look on his face. Jackson and Lydia were leaning in a corner, Jackson looking bored and Lydia looking pleased with herself, as though being let in on a pack meeting was equivalent to having climbed another rung on the social ladder. And Derek supposed, if he thought about it a certain way, it was. All of Lydia's friends were involved in the supernatural; to leave her out of the meeting would have been relegating her to the role of outcast. Which they'd already done once before, with somewhat disastrous results.

Standing near the door was Isaac, his eyes unfocused and his hand rummaging absently through his hair. Derek didn't worry about that; he knew once he started speaking Isaac's focus would shift and he'd be as attentive as Derek needed him to be. Beside him was Allison, her lips pulled in and her eyes big, with her arms crossed over her chest, and Chris Argent, with his crossbow hanging at his side and a daring look in his eyes. The sight of any Argent made Derek bristle still, even after all they'd done together over the past year, but he still inclined his head fractionally at them out of politeness. It soothed his temper to see Chris mirror the action, and for Allison to give him a tight, awkward smile and a little wave.

Scott and Stiles arrived last, red-faced and breathing hard. "Thought we heard something outside," Scott explained breathlessly, and Stiles elbowed him.

"Not that we're afraid or anything," Stiles said, looking at Derek with his chin raised. The words were belied a little by the jumpy looks the two kept giving the doorway.

That was a good enough lead-in for Derek. "You should be afraid," Derek said, stepping forward and addressing the room at large. "Everyone in this room has reason to be afraid tonight. The Alpha pack follow the rules of tradition, and they enforce those rules wherever they go. Tonight they'll be judging my worthiness as an Alpha and my territorial claims over Beacon Hills. If they find me- and by extension, my pack- to be lacking, it won't be pretty." He looked at his wolves closely. "They'll kill me," he said, "and any of my betas that they don't think are worth their time. Any human mates," he went on, looking at Allison and Lydia (and not looking at Stiles, even if the odd compulsion to do so was there), "will either be absorbed into their pack unwillingly, or killed if they're found to be a threat or just too annoying for their liking." He did look at Stiles, then; couldn't help it, really. And he didn't miss the little "Who, me? Annoying? Never," look on his face, either.

"So," Derek continued, turning his attention back to the rest of the room, "everyone here has a reason to worry tonight, if not for themselves then for their friends or their mates."

"What if we're not in your pack, technically?" Scott asked. Stiles gave him a dirty look, but Derek thought it was a fair question.

"In your case, it wouldn't matter. I'm the only true Alpha in Beacon Hills; they're going to assume any wolf living here answers to me. That brings Allison in to it, which associates the entire Argent clan at that point, doesn't it?"

Chris nodded, shooting a protective glance at his daughter.

Scott didn't look satisfied. "What about Stiles?" he asked stubbornly.

_Stiles is ours,_ Derek thought, surprisingly fierce.  _Stiles is pack._ Instead of saying any of that, Derek simply shook his head. "He's got ties with every werewolf in town," he explained, dissatisfied with the lackluster answer and the disservice it did to Stiles but not sure what else to say. "They'll want him, for one reason or another."

Accepting that with a shrug, Scott nodded for Derek to go on.

"The good news," Derek announced, looking at them all in turn, "is that we're not doing anything here that flies in the face of werewolf tradition. Wolves have always had humans in their packs for one reason or another. There have always been power-squabbles and incidences of newly-made weres losing control. We aren't going to be considered for any automatic violations of code. But they are going to try to push us, to prove that we're dangerous to the community, that we're unstable."

"They'd be right," Chris Argent pointed out, his pale eyes unblinking. "How many deaths in Beacon Hills can be attributed to the people standing in this very room?" He looked at Jackson, at Peter, daring them to speak.

The words were on the tip of his tongue-  _How many Hales were murdered by an Argent? How many innocent lives has your family claimed since coming into the business of hunting "monsters"?_ -but he stopped himself. "True or not," he said, earning a skeptical look from Chris, "if that's what the Alphas decide, we're going to have a fight on our hands. A fight we won't necessarily win, not without a few causalities."

He turned his attention back to the newer wolves, to Scott and Isaac and Jackson. "They're going to try and make you angry. They want you to shift, to lose control, to attack first. Keep a cool head, and leave your pride out of this." He opened his mouth to say something else and stopped, scenting the air instead. "They're here." Looking at his pack, Derek said quietly, "Everyone, outside. Don't go closer than three feet to the Alphas, and don't speak. They'll be expecting me to present myself last." When no one moved, he glared at them and growled, "Now. Go."

In a flurry of motion they headed out, Lydia clutching Jackson's arm and Allison slipping her hand around Scott's, giving him a comforting look. Before Stiles could follow them, Derek grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back- a little too rough, it seemed, as Stiles faceplanted into Derek's chest. Wincing, Derek took hold of Stiles' shoulders and set him straight. "Hey," he said, looking into Stiles' eyes, his stomach tight with worry. "Don't do anything stupid."

Stiles grinned up at him, a touch of color on his cheeks. "Don't you know who you're talking to?"

"You're not stupid," Derek said softly. He brushed his thumb along Stiles' cheekbone, surprising even himself with the tenderness of it. "Just young." He leaned in and whispered in Stiles' ear: "Stay by my side. Don't leave me, no matter what."

Nodding slowly, his eyes huge, Stiles mumbled, "Okay." He kept his word, walking closely beside Derek and glancing up at him now and again as they went out to meet the Alphas.

 


	16. Chapter 16

There was still enough of a moon to light the clearing outside Hale house; it hung low in the sky, a wisp of a cloud draped across its face like a crooked smile. The Beacon Hills pack stood near the house in a small cluster, arranged in a semi-circle that shielded the humans behind the werewolves. Stiles wondered if that had been a conscious decision, but suspected it hadn't.

Across the clearing, near the trees, were the Alphas. Their eyes were a luminescent rainbow against the backdrop of forest; Stiles counted nine pairs (including Sam, Green Eyes, and Purple Eyes). They were in a straight line, no one protecting or dominating anyone else. At their feet were two huddled forms, one of them gasping in a way that sounded strangely familiar and heartwrenchingly feminine. Sexist or no, there was something about a girl crying that always made Stiles want to help.

Derek walked around to the front of the Beacon Hills group, glancing at Stiles now and again to make sure he was following. Which, honestly, he really didn't need to worry about. Stiles was reasonably certain no one had ever looked at him the way Derek just had when they were alone, and he was pretty sure that no one who could look at him like that would let him come into harm. Aside from that, it wasn't like he was a helpless princess or anything. He had a superpower. And, yeah, he wasn't entirely sure how to use it, but he thought if things got dire enough he'd probably figure it out.

Hopefully.

Coming to a stop a few feet in front of their semi-circle of people (and slightly shielding Stiles with his own body), Derek stopped and slipped his hands into his pockets, his stance wide and his chin lifted. "I'm Derek Hale," he said confidently, his voice loud. "And this is my pack."

One of the Alphas stepped forward out of the shadows, sending goosebumps up Stiles' arms. He looked like Nick Fury, badass and no-nonsense. He even had a scar across one of his golden-colored eyes. "You can call me Orion. You seem to understand the old ways. Who taught you?"

"The Hales have controlled this territory for nearly a century," Derek said. "I was raised in a pack."

Orion gave the group an appraising look. "And yet you have no elders here, save one," he said softly. "What happened to them?"

Derek's expression was inscrutable. "They died."

"Ah." Orion nodded once and stepped back, just as another Alpha stepped forward. Sam. Her eyes were glowing a sort of ruby-red that Stiles typically associated with an Alpha.

"We found something of yours out in the woods, Derek Hale," she purred. She kicked at the two shapes on the ground and growled, "Up. Up, you little idiots." Hauling them out into the little, she let Boyd and Erica drop down at her feet. They looked bad- really,  _really_  bad. Boyd's left eye was swollen shut, his lip split and dripping blood. Erica somehow looked worse, her hair matted and bloody and mascara streaks running down her face. Their expressions looked pained, as though they were being tortured that very instant even though no one was touching them.

Stiles knew he must have looked horrified, but Derek only stared at the two of them impassively. "They aren't mine," he said to Sam. "They abandoned the pack. They're Omegas."

"Then you won't mind if we kill them," Sam simpered, kneeling down and stroking Boyd's face. He flinched away from her, making a noise too much like whimpering for it to not pierce Stiles' heart.

Derek shifted slightly. "Do what you will," he said, making Stiles' jaw drop. "They're no concern of mine."

"Derek," Stiles hissed, stepping forward. Derek put out his arm and gave Stiles a steely look. Which, big fucking deal, Derek could look like a tough guy all night but Stiles still wasn't going to just stand there and let Boyd and Erica die. He met Derek's look with one of his own. "You have to do something."

"I thought you were the Alpha in this pack," called one of the werewolves still hidden in the shadows. "Or is it actually your little human?"

"He's just their whore," Sam said dismissively. She stood and looked up at Derek, smiling. "We've been giving them little doses of wolfsbane. Just enough to keep them docile...and in constant pain. Honestly, death would be a mercy to them."

"I told you," Derek frowned. "They're not my problem. Do as you wish."

"Let the young ones go," Green Eyes said suddenly, stepping forward. He was thin and tall, with a neat white beard and an air of cool dignity about him. He looked out of place in his tweed suit jacket next to Orion in his trench and boots and Sam in her tight jeans and leather jacket. "It's more trouble than it's worth." He looked at Derek like someone might look at a snot-nosed toddler throwing a tantrum at the grocery store. "I'm growing bored with this. Let's finish here."

Sam looked as though she wanted to protest...but then she stalked back to her place in the shadows, her red eyes narrowed.

Green Eyes watched her go before calmly turning back to Derek, his hands clasped in front of him. "Derek Hale, we find you guilty of no trespasses and innocent of misdeed." He yawned and glanced at his watch. "Let us part as friends, and-"

"Wait!" Scenting the air, Sam rushed forward and paused at Green Eyes' side. "Do you smell that?"

"No," Green Eyes grumbled irritably, sniffing...and then the look on his face shifted from boredom to confusion. "Oh, yes. Silver?"

"Silver," Sam agreed. A murmur ran through the line of Alphas, and Derek's jaw clenched even more tightly than usual. "I thought it was just jewelery at first, but then the wind shifted and I smelled-"

"Gunpowder," Green Eyes finished, looking at the Beacon Hills pack darkly. His eyes roved over them, and then paused at the gun hanging on Chris Argent's hip. "Silver bullets." He looked at Derek like he was seeing him for the first time. "You allowed a hunter to attend this meeting?"

"He's with us," Derek said quickly. He looked a little bit alarmed, as though he hadn't at all expected this to be an issue.

"A hunter. A slayer of our kind. He's in your pack?" Green Eyes stared at them all incredulously. "This can't be allowed to continue. I'm sorry, but no. I rescind my previous judgment." He looked at Sam, his brows pulled together and his mouth twisted into a little frown. "Kill them," he said, with a little shake of his head. "Kill them all."

Suddenly, things began to move very quickly. All the werewolves- on both sides- shifted seemingly at once in a mass of bared teeth and sharpened claws. Allison had her dad's gun in her hand in an instant, the clack of steel as she chambered a round echoing through the heavy night air. Chris notched an arrow and hefted his bow; Lydia took a few clumsy steps backward, her mouth hanging open.

Derek pushed Stiles behind him. Stiles could hear someone saying, "The Alpha, take the Alpha first and the others will fall more easily," and then they were charging and Derek was bracing himself and everyone around him was growling and-

Stiles thrust out his hand unthinkingly, reaching past Derek and sending out a pulse of concentrated air from his fingertips that surprised him as much as it surprised everyone else. The entire Alpha pack was knocked to the ground, and for a moment everyone seemed frozen with shock.

Everyone was staring at him, his friends with astonishment, Derek with absolute fury, and the Alphas with undisguised interest. "My, oh my," Sam breathed, her chest heaving. "What on Earth is he?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I'll be writing in this 'verse, folks, but don't be sad because it looks like Slayne is going to be taking over for me. :)
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this, and I hugely looking forward to seeing where this story goes next. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (I'm hoping that we'll be able to get the next part of this posted in the same series here on AO3, but if not I'll post a link here so you guys aren't left with this cliffhanger forever, haha.)


End file.
